Page 14 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 14

“Y our Grace! I’m back to see Argus again if you don’t mind. This time, I brought him a gift!”

Victor glanced up from his paperwork to see young Tristan standing in the doorway of his study, holding what appeared to be a rough-hewn wooden figure.

Argus, that mischievous dog, was already bounding across the room, tail wagging furiously as he rushed to greet the boy.

“Tristan,” Victor said with a resigned sigh, putting down his pen. “I see you’ve once again decided to skip the formalities of an invitation.” For some reason, he could not help but entertain the child. “If I don’t mind? I don’t suppose you care a wit if I minded or not.”

Tristan’s bright smile dimmed a bit, and he had the sense to look chastised.

“I did ask the butler at the gate this time, though.” The child was pleading his case. “He told me that you were busy but that I could wait in the gardens until you were free.”

Victor sighed again. Of course, Thatcher would let him in—the old gatekeeper had a well-known soft spot for children, having raised five of his own. Victor should have seen this coming and given clearer instructions.

“And do you think I’m less busy now, perchance?” he asked drily.

Tristan shuffled his feet. Leaning down to gently pat Argus’s head, he said, “I thought so. It’s nearly sundown!” At Victor’s blank look, he hurried to add, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“Well, since you’re here, you might as well show Argus his gift,” Victor relented, surprised at his own willingness.

Maybe he was just too tired to resist. The boy seemed intent on building a bond with the dog and perhaps even with him, and Victor was finding it harder and harder to keep his usual distance.

Tristan’s face lit up at once. “I carved it myself! It’s supposed to be a little English Setter, just like him.” He held out the wooden figure for Argus to sniff. “I’m still learning to carve, but Mr. Higgins is teaching me. He says I have steady hands.”

“It’s… recognizable,” Victor said, trying to be generous. The lump of wood had four legs, at least, and something that could be called a tail if one squinted at it hard enough. “You might want to add some spots with paint.”

“That’s a brilliant idea!” Tristan exclaimed, as if Victor had just made a groundbreaking revelation. “Can I take Argus to the gardens? I promise I won’t let him dig in the flower beds again.”

“Again?” Victor raised an eyebrow.

Tristan’s eyes widened. “Did I say again? I meant… ever. I won’t let him dig ever!”

“You little imp.” Victor tutted. “Very well. But stay within sight of the house.”

As the boy raced off, Argus hot on his heels, Victor returned to his correspondence. The quarterly accounts from his shipping business in Bristol needed attention, yet he found himself repeatedly distracted by the sound of laughter drifting through the open window.

After twenty minutes of minimal progress, he gave up, striding outside to find Tristan and Argus engaged in an elaborate game of fetch involving a stick and the boy’s handkerchief.

“I think Argus is getting tired,” Victor commented, noting the dog’s heaving sides.

“Oh! Should we let him rest?” Tristan asked anxiously. “I don’t want to exhaust him.”

“A change of activity might be in order.” Victor gestured toward the path that led around the east wing. “Perhaps you’d care to see the stables.”

Tristan’s eyes lit up. “Yes, please!”

The boy chattered incessantly as they walked, a stream of observations about clouds, birds, and the particular shade of blue in the sky that somehow reminded him of jam.

Victor found that he did not hate it at all.

“Your stables are magnificent!” Tristan exclaimed as they entered the cavernous building.

His eyes traveled from the polished brass fixtures to the gleaming coats of the thoroughbreds.

“We only have three horses at home now. Caesar, Mama’s mare Athena, and old Brutus, who pulls the cart. I don’t get to ride as often as I’d like.”

There was no self-pity in his tone, merely a statement of fact, yet Victor felt a pang in his chest.

“Does your riding instructor not take you out regularly?” he asked.

Tristan scuffed the toe of his boot against the straw-covered floor. “Oh, he comes only once a fortnight now. Mama says we must be… economical.”

The boy’s careful pronunciation of the word told Victor he was merely parroting something he’d heard from adults. The Dowager Countess’s financial situation had to be more precarious than he’d realized.

“Your form on horseback—is it any good?” Victor found himself asking, even though he knew, after seeing the boy on a horse, that there was much to be desired.

“Oh, my instructor says I’m a natural,” Tristan replied with a touch of pride.

“Most instructors say that,” Victor said dryly. “Would you care to demonstrate? I have a gentle gelding that might suit you.”

The boy’s face transformed with delight. “Truly? May I?”

“I’m the one offering, am I not?” came Victor’s gruff reply, but there was no annoyance in his tone at all.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were trotting around the paddock, Tristan mounted on a dappled gray horse named Mercury while Victor rode his preferred stallion, Ares.

“Sit deeper in the saddle,” Victor instructed, observing the boy’s form with a critical eye. “Shoulders back. You’re perched like a sparrow on a branch.”

Tristan adjusted his posture immediately, his eyes wide and focused. “Do you mean, like this?”

Victor grunted in the affirmative. “Better. Now, heels down. No, further down. Your legs should be longer.” He frowned. “Has this instructor of yours taught you nothing of proper position?”

“He mostly tells me I’m doing splendidly,” Tristan admitted.

“Hmph. There’s nothing splendid about a form that would see you thrown at the first unexpected movement.” Victor guided Ares alongside Mercury. “Now, watch. Back straight but not rigid. Deep in the saddle. Legs long, heels down. You must become part of the horse, not merely a passenger.”

Tristan studied him intently and then adjusted his position with surprising accuracy. “Oh!” His eyes lit up with delight. “This feels different. More… secure.”

Victor’s lips twitched. “Because it is. Now, let’s try a canter.”

The hour passed swiftly as Victor found himself absorbed in correcting the boy’s technique. Tristan was an eager student, quick to implement suggestions, and genuinely delighted by his improvement.

“This is wonderful!” Tristan exclaimed as they completed a figure eight. “I wish I could ride like this every day! Mama tries to practice with me sometimes, but I can tell she doesn’t truly enjoy it.”

Victor’s ears perked up. “Oh?”

“She prefers painting to riding, I think. But she knows I love horses, so she pretends to be enthusiastic.”

Tristan’s expression grew serious, and Victor caught a glimpse of the nobleman he would soon become.

“I try not to ask too often,” the boy continued. “She already does so much for me—managing the estate, teaching me when we can’t afford tutors, attending all those boring meetings with Mr. Halston about finances.”

Victor digested this information, and with it came a clearer understanding of the Dowager Countess’s situation.

“It’s just the two of us, you see,” Tristan continued, “and though she never says so, I know things are difficult sometimes. But she always puts on a smile for me.”

The simple loyalty in the boy’s voice stirred something in Victor’s chest—an emotion he’d thought long buried.

“It’s getting late,” he said abruptly, in a bid to cut that emotion short before it could blossom. “Your mother will be concerned.”

Tristan nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose I should be returning home now.” His eyes, however, were mournful. “Thank you for the lesson, Your Grace. I’ve learned more today than in all my sessions with my riding instructor!”

After they dismounted and handed the horses to the stable hand, Tristan suddenly threw his arms around Victor’s waist in a fierce hug.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Victor froze, his arms suspended awkwardly at his sides, his heart thundering in his chest and ears. How long had it been since anyone had embraced him with such uncomplicated affection? The sensation was foreign, unsettling, yet somehow… necessary.

Oh, how was he to react to this? However, before he could decide whether to return the gesture, the child released him, rushing over to give Argus a farewell pat.

“Goodbye, Argus! Goodbye, Your Grace! I’ll try to practice my riding form every day! I’ll become as good as you! You’ll see!”

And then he was gone, racing down the path toward home, leaving Victor standing in the stable yard with the peculiar sensation that something in his carefully ordered world had irrevocably shifted.

Damn it.

* * *

“No, no, the light isn’t right at all,” Emma muttered to herself, dabbing at the canvas with growing frustration.

The lake in her painting remained stubbornly flat, lacking the glow she sought to capture.

The summer heat pressed against Cuthbert Hall like a physical presence, turning her studio into something approximating a baker’s oven by midday.

Emma had discarded her usual high-neck dress hours ago, replacing it with a simple muslin frock that left her arms bare beneath her paint-splattered apron. Her hair, hastily pinned up, had begun to escape its confines, tendrils curling at her temples and neck, where perspiration gathered.

She stepped back, tilting her head to assess her work. Still not right. The water needed to reflect something more, something elusive that hovered just beyond her grasp. Something like the shifting moods in a certain duke’s eyes…

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Come in,” she called absently, her attention still focused on the canvas as she mixed a new shade of blue.

“The Duke of Westmere, My Lady,” Mr. Frederick announced with stiff formality.

Emma’s head snapped up, but before she could respond—before she could even process the words—a tall figure strode past her butler and into her private sanctuary.

The paintbrush slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor and spattering droplets of cerulean across the worn boards.

The Duke stood before her, larger than life and entirely out of place among her easels and half-finished canvases. His presence seemed to shrink the room, making her acutely aware of its cluttered intimacy and of the personal nature of the art displayed on every wall.

“Your Grace,” she managed, her voice higher than usual. “This is… unexpected.”

Mr. Frederick moved to retrieve the fallen brush, but Emma waved him away. “Leave us, please.”

The butler’s disapproving look made it clear that he considered this highly improper, but he bowed stiffly and withdrew, pulling the door firmly closed behind him.

Emma bent to clean up the paint spill, grateful for the moment to compose herself.

“To what do I owe this intrusion, Your Grace?” she asked, keeping her tone carefully neutral.

The Duke did not reply. Instead, he moved slowly around her studio, his gaze traveling over each canvas, each sketch. His attention lingered on the series of lake scenes that dominated one wall. Something in his expression shifted, a barely perceptible softening around his eyes followed by a flash of heat as realization dawned on him.

“Little temptress,” he whispered so softly that Emma almost missed it.

“Pardon me?” she asked, bewildered by both his words and the sudden intensity in his gaze as it returned to her.

He didn’t elaborate, merely continued his inspection with a new awareness in his bearing—shoulders slightly more relaxed, head tilted in consideration as he studied each rendition of water and sky. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, a secret amusement playing across his features.

“Did you hear me, Your Grace?” Emma pressed, rising with the soiled brush clutched in her hand. “What are you doing here?”

When he finally turned to face her, his eyes widened fractionally and dropped to her bare arms, before quickly returning to her face. A hint of color touched his cheeks.

Emma flushed, suddenly acutely aware of her state of undress. While the sleeveless dress was perfectly acceptable for working alone in the heat, it was decidedly improper for receiving visitors—particularly male visitors. She hastily reached for a shawl draped over a nearby chair, wrapping it around her shoulders despite the stifling temperature.

The Duke cleared his throat. “I’ve come to make an offer.”

“What offer?”

“I am going to be your son’s instructor from now on.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emma stared at him in bewilderment.

“Riding, archery, history, chess.” He enumerated these subjects with crisp precision. “Young Tristan shows aptitude, but his current education is… inadequate.”

Emma narrowed her eyes, her suspicion flaring. “What on earth are you talking about? I’m not letting my son anywhere near you.”

“He’s already been near me,” Victor replied calmly. “Twice, in fact, since our encounter at the lake. Quite determined to befriend my dog, it seems.”

“What?” Emma’s protective instincts surged, hot and immediate. “How?—”

Victor raised a hand, cutting her off. “Spare your breath, Lady Cuthbert. Your son seems determined to visit my estate and spend time with Argus, regardless of any prohibitions. Would you prefer he continues to sneak around in secret, or would you rather be present to supervise these interactions?”

The question hung in the air between them. Emma swallowed hard, tamping down her initial fury with effort.

He was right—if Tristan had already gone there twice without her knowledge, he would likely do it again. Her son had a stubborn streak that matched her own.

“The boy is curious,” Victor continued, his deep voice surprisingly gentle. “It’s natural at his age. I have noticed that his riding form is poor—dangerously so. I can correct that.” He took a step closer. “Three sessions weekly at Westmere. You will, of course, be present throughout.”

Emma lifted her chin. “My son already has a tutor.”

“Yes, I am aware.” His lip curled slightly. “I’m familiar with his methods. Ineffective at best, dangerous at worst. Dismiss him.”

“You presume a great deal, Your Grace,” Emma said stiffly, sheer affront lacing her words. “What makes you think I’ll allow my son anywhere near you?”

Victor took another step forward, close enough now that she could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. “Has the child been in any danger in my presence?”

Emma bristled but knew she was rather unable to make that accusation against him.

Finally, she simply said, “I cannot trust you.”

“A sentiment I can accept,” he replied with surprising equanimity. “Which is precisely why you will be present at all times, as will members of my staff.”

“Why?” Emma asked, her curiosity slipping in her voice despite herself. “Why are you doing this?”

She watched as the Duke’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking along its sharp line. “Because the boy deserves it.”

Something in his tone—a rawness that was quickly concealed—made her resistance waver.

Yet, she hesitated. “You sound noble, Your Grace, but I am not convinced.”

The Duke took another step closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “I do not know what I have done to warrant this fear, Lady Cuthbert.”

Emma huffed out a breath. “Are you truly saying that, Your Grace?”

“Well, as far as I know, I have been quite civil with you. Why do you listen to rumors instead of seeing what’s in front of you?”

“You were seen beating Lord Hastings bloody,” Emma countered, but with less conviction than before.

The Duke scoffed. “The ton fabricates all manner of tales about you as well, doesn’t it? The scandalous Lady Cuthbert, poisoning the minds of respectable dowagers and wayward spinsters. Should I believe every whisper?”

Emma’s certainty wavered. She supposed her prejudices against him might be unfair, but she just couldn’t shake off the feeling in her gut.

“He’s my son. And I do not know you,” she insisted, though her voice had lost its edge. “I just…”

“You will be with him at every moment,” Victor stated firmly. “The instant you feel uncomfortable—the instant you sense your son is uncomfortable—we stop. Immediately.”

Emma studied his face, searching for deception and finding only an intensity that made her heart pound. “And what do you expect in return?”

“Nothing.”

“Now, that is hard to believe.”

The Duke took a step forward, and Emma scuttled two steps back. She’d done it before her mind could even catch up to the action, and her cheeks flushed red.

In front of her, the Duke chuckled, the sound rough, skittering across her skin like sandpaper. It was not an altogether unpleasant sensation, however.

“One would think a wild beast was stalking you, Lady Cuthbert,” he said.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath. She did not know whether or not he meant that as a joke, or if he really was trying to warn her of his true nature, but she was certainly not amused.

“Well, it is not as though you are giving me any assurances as to keeping to civility, Your Grace,” she said, lifting her chin.

The Duke’s eyebrow arched, his amused expression stark against his scarred face. “Oh, are you worried about… that?”

Emma wanted to strangle him for how nonchalant he sounded.

“Rest assured, My Lady, our indiscretion by the lake was a mistake. Don’t allow it to cloud your judgment regarding what’s best for your son,” he said.

The reference to their kiss sent heat through Emma that had nothing to do with the summer sun. She dropped her gaze, considering his offer.

Tristan’s education had been a constant worry—she couldn’t afford the best tutors, and his enthusiasm for learning deserved more than she could provide.

“Three days a week,” she said finally. “Morning sessions only.”

The Duke nodded once decisively. “Come to Westmere Hall tomorrow after breakfast. Bring clothes suitable for riding.”

He turned to leave, but then he paused, looking back at her. Before Emma could react, he reached out. She froze, her breath catching in her throat, uncertain of his intention.

His thumb brushed her cheek—soft, unhurried. She stilled. The touch was warm, far gentler than she’d expected from a man like him. He lingered, his thumb stroking slowly along her skin, just beneath her eye, as though memorizing the shape of her face.

A curious heat bloomed in her chest, spreading outward, muddling her thoughts. The world around her narrowed to that single point of contact, to the quiet drag of his skin against hers.

Then, abruptly, he pulled back.

She blinked, her gaze dropping to his hand, and only then did she see the faint smear of blue paint on his thumb.

“Oh,” she murmured, the flush already rising in her cheeks.

He’d only meant to wipe it away. Hadn’t he?

“You,” he said softly, “must really love the lake on my estate. You can see it when you come over.”

Emma’s entire face bloomed a deep scarlet, her eyes going wide. “You! How… how dare…”

She must have looked amusing because his lips curved, the ghost of a smile transforming his handsome yet severe features for the briefest moment.

Then, with a formal bow, he was gone, leaving her standing amid her paintings, her heart racing as if she’d run up the manor’s grand staircase.